“Pray wait a moment, Doctor. Let me offer you some refreshment before you begin that long walk. Iris?”
“Yes, Aunt Peace.” The girl knew very well what was expected of her, and dimples came and went around the corners of her mouth.
“Those little cakes that we had for tea—perhaps there may be one or two left, and is there not a little wine?”
“I’ll see.”
Smiling at the pretty comedy, she went out into the kitchen, where Doctor Brinkerhoff’s favourite cakes, freshly made, had been carefully put away. Only one of them had been touched, and that merely to make sure of the quality.
With the Royal Worcester plate, generously piled with cakes, a tray of glasses, and a decanter of Miss Field’s famous port, she went back into the parlour.
“This is very charming,” said the Doctor. He had made the same speech once a week for ten years. Aunt Peace filled the glasses, and when all had been served, she looked at him with a rare smile upon her beautiful old face.
Then the brim of his glass touched hers with the clear ring of crystal. “To your good health, madam!”
“And to your prosperity,” she returned. The old toast still served.
“And now, my dear Miss Iris,” he said, “may we not hope for a song?”